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SUBJECTS. 

To  THE  REDBREAST 

To  THE  CUCKOO 

To  DAFFODILS        .     ... 

ON  THE  MORNING     . 

ON  THE  EVENING 

ON  TIME    . 

To  THE  HARVEST  MOON 

To  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

ON  ins  BLINDNESS 

To  EVENING 

ON  SOLITUDE 

HOW  DARKLY  O'ER 

STATELY  YON  VESSEL 
LIKE  AS  A  SHIP 
To  PEACE 
THE  SPRING 
SWEET  is  THE  ROSE 
AMONGST  THE  MANY  BUDS 


AUTHORS. 

PAGE. 

Bampfylde 

9 

Logan 

.       10 

Ilerrick 

.       12 

Bampfylde 

.       13 

— 

.       14 

Milton 

.       16 

Kirfce  White. 

.       17 

Milton 

20 

•\ 

.       22 

Collins 

.       23 

Pope 

.       26 

Southey 

.       27 

— 

28 

Spenser 

.       30 

Coicper 

» 

Fanshaice 

.       32 

Spenser 

.       33 

Browne 

34 

CONTENTS 


SUBJECTS.                                                                                                      AUTHORS.  PAGK. 

How  SWEET  IT  is           .    .      .          .          .         .  Wordsworth  .  34 

THINE  EYES'  BLUE  TENDERNESS         .         .     .  Byron         .  .  30 

THY  CHEEK  is  PALE      .  .37 

THE  ROLLING  WHEEL Spenser      .  .  38 

THE  WINTER  TRAVELLER       ....  Kirke  White  .  „ 

HOW    SLEEP    THE    BRAVE       .                                      .       .  CollillS          .  .  40 

DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING        .         .         ...  Earl  of  Surrey  41 

DEAR  CHORISTER        .         .         .         .         .  Drummond  .  42 

To  A  BROOK           ......  Southey      .  .  „ 

WlNSLADE,  THY    BEECH-CAPT  HILLS     f            .       .  WartOll.        .  .  44 

To  LEVEN  ABATER         .         .         .         .         .  Smollett     .  .  45 
BECAUSE  I  BREATHE  NOT  LOVE 

NOW    THE    BRIGHT    MORNING    STAR               .             .  Milton           .  .  48 

To  MEADOWS     .......  Herrick      .  .  „ 

THE  MERRY  CUCKOW       .         .                           .  Spenser      .  .  51 

FAIR  is  THE  RISING  MORN        .         .         .     .  Southey      .  .  52 

GrIVE    ME    A    COTTAGE Kirke  White  .  ,, 

Now  THE  GOLDEN  MORN  AXOFT         .         .     .  Gray          .  .  54 

To  THE  EIVER  TRENT            ....  Kirke  White  .  55 

DURING  A  TEMPEST           Southey      .  .  56 

LIKE  AS  THE  CULVER    ...                 .  Spenser      .  .  „ 

ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE  .  Charlotte  Smith  58 


Sir  Philip  Sidney       47 


1 

AUTHORS. 

Shakspeare 

% 

PAGE. 

59 

O   •:•;;  ^   -0,  <ON  TE  NT  s 

SUBJECTS. 
FROM    YOU    I    HAVE    BEEN    ABSENT        .            .       . 

To  THE  EVENING  RAINBOW  .... 

South  ey 

60 

MORNING           

Warton 

„ 

To  YERTUE    . 

Herbert 

63 

THRICE  HAPPY  HE              .         .         .         .     . 

Drummond 

64 

THE  RETURN          

Bampfylde 

„ 

ON  THE  SABBATH  MORNING     .         .         .     . 

Leyden 

66 

To  THE  EVENING  STAR          .... 

— 

67 

To  A  REDBREAST       

Drummond 

68 

WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS  ..... 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

70 

MAY                   .... 

Browne 

71 

THE    GARLANDS    FADE        ..... 

Charlotte  Smith 

72 

To  STELLA         ....... 

Johnson 

„ 

MAY  DAY      .                 .                 . 

Heber 

74 

ON  THE  SPRING        

Gray 

76 

IT    IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVENING 

Wordsworth 

79 

THE  HAMLET     

Warton 

80 

ON    YONDER    VERDANT    HILLOCK 

Akenside    . 

84 

To  THE  THRUSH        

Burns 

85 

THE  SHEPHERD,  LOOKING  EASTWARD     . 

Wordsworth 

86 

A  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT       

Bloomfield 

87 

To  SLEEP       

Wordsworth 

88 

"*******•* 

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SUBJECTS. 
FULL    MANY    A    GLORIOUS    MORNING 

AITTHOBS. 

Shakspeare 

PAGE. 

.       88 

THE    WEARY    YE  ARE 

Spenser 

.       91 

PACK  CLOUDS  AWAY 

Heywood    . 

.       92 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 

.     Burns 

.       93 

To  SPRING         .... 

Sir  J.  Dames 

95 

BETIREMENT 

Warton,  sen. 

96- 

THAT  TIME  or  YEAR 

.     SJiakspeare 

• 

A  HAPPY  LIFE 

.     Wotton 

.       98 

THE  VIOLET       .... 

.     Langliorne 

.     100 

SPRING 

.     Lodge 

55 

THE  DAISY 

.     .     Clare 

.     102 

To  MAY         

.     Darwin 

.     103 

COME  LIVE  WITH  ME 

.     Marlowe     . 

.     104 

WHEN  MAY  is  IN  HIS  PRIME 

.     Edwards    . 

.     105 

ON  CHRISTMAS 

.     Bampfylde 

.     106 

I 

I 

i 

• 

Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 
Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling  drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweet-briar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk. 

THOMSON. 


•U  >       V  iVl 

•  • 


"  I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers ; 
I  sino-  of  may-poles." 

HEKIUCK. 


TO  THE  REDBREAST. 

WHEN  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay  attire, 
Thou  silent  sitt'st  near  brake  or  river's  brim, 
Whilst  the  gay  thrush  sings  loud  from  covert  dim ; 
But  when  pale  Winter  lights  the  social  fire, 
And  meads  with  slime  are  sprent,  and  ways  with  mire, 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Thou  charm'st  us  with  thy  soft  and  solemn  hymn 

From  battlement,  or  barn,  or  hay-stack  trim ; 
And  now  not  seldom  tunest,  as  if  for  hire, 
Thy  thrilling  pipe  to  me,  waiting  to  catch 

The  pittance  due  to  thy  well- warbled  song ; 
Sweet  bird  !  sing  on ;  for  oft  near  lonely  hatch, 

Like  thee,  myself  have  pleased  the  rustic  throng, 
And  oft  for  entrance,  'neath  the  peaceful  thatch, 

Full  many  a  tale  have  told,  and  ditty  long. 

BA.MPFYLDE. 


ODE  TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

•^     AIL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 
Thy  certain  voice  we  hear ; 

Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thcc 
I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 


10 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood, 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  ! 

O  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee  ! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 

JOHN  LOGAN 


_ 


n 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


TO  DAFFODILS. 

AIRE  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soone ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noone  : 
Stay,  stay, 

Untill  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song ; 
And  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  goe  with  you  along  ! 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  spring, 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing  : 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  doe ;  and  drie 

Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  raine, 
Or  as  the  pearles  of  morning  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

HERRICK, 


12 


ON  THE  MORNING. 

RINGS  the  shrill  peal  of  dawn  gay  chanticleer, 
Thrice  warning  that  the  day-star  climbs  on  high^ 


13 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  pales  his  beam  as  Phoebus'  car  draws  nigh. 
Now  ere  the  lawns  or  distant  cribs  appear, 
Or  ere  the  crows  from  wattled  sheep-cote  veer 

Their  early  flight,  or  wakeful  herdsman's  eye 

Discerns  the  smoky  hamlet,  let  me  ply 
My  daily  task,  to  guide  the  labouring  steer, 

Plant  the  low  shrub,  remove  the  unsightly  mound, 
Or  nurse  the  flower,  or  tend  the  humming  swarms. 

Thus  ever  with  the  morn  may  I  be  found, 

Far  from  the  hunter-band's  discordant  yell ; 

So  in  my  breast  Content  and  Health  shall  dwell, 
And  conscious  Bliss,  and  love  of  Nature's  charms. 

BAMPFYLDE, 


ON  THE  EVENING. 

SLOW  sinks  the  glimmering  beam  from  western  sky ; 
The  woods  and  hills,  obscured  by  evening  gray, 
Vajiish  from  mortal  sight,  and  fade  away. 

Now  with  the  flocks  and  yearlings  let  me  hie 

To  farm,  or  cottage  lone,  where,  perch' d  hard  by, 
On  mossy  pale  the  redbreast  tunes  his  lay, 
Soft  twittering,  and  bids  farewell  to  day ; 

Then,  whilst  the  watchdog  barks,  and  ploughmen  lie, 


14 


LulPd  by  the  rocking  winds,  let  me  unfold 
Whatever  in  rhapsody,  or  strain  most  holy, 

The  hoary  minstrel  sang  in  times  of  old ; 

For  well  I  ween,  from  them  the  Nine  inspire 

Wisdom  shall  flow,  and  virtue's  sacred  fire, 

And  Peace,  and  love,  and  heavenly  Melancholy. 

BAMPFYLDE. 


16 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE  ON  TIME. 

FLY,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race ; 

Call  on  the  lazy  leaden-stepping  Hours, 

Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plummet's  pace ; 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  womb  devours, 

Which  is  110  more  than  what  is  false  and  vain, 

And  merely  mortal  dross ; 

So  little  is  our  loss, 

So  little  is  thy  gain  ! 

For  when  as  each  thing  bad  thou  hast  entomVd, 

And,  last  of  all,  thy  greedy  self  consumed, 

Then  long  eternity  shall  greet  our  bliss 

With  an  individual  kiss ; 

And  joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood, 

When  every  thing  that  is  sincerely  good 

And  perfectly  divine, 

With  truth,  and  peace,  and  love,  shall  ever  shine 

About  the  supreme  throne 

Of  Him,  to  whose  happy-making  sight  alone 

When  once  our  heavenly- guided  soul  shall  climb, 

Then,  all  this  earthly  grossness  quit, 

Attired  with  stars  we  shall  for  ever  sit, 

Triumphing  over  death,  and  chance,  and  thee,  O  Time. 

MILTON. 


16 


ODE  TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON, 

Moox  of  harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's  child, 
Hail !   oh  hail !   I  greet  thy  beam, 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream,, 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  gilds  the  straw- 1 hatch' d  hamlet  wide, 
Where  innocence  and  peace  reside ; 
'Tis  thou  that  gladd'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene ; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  thin  vapour  intercepts  thy  ray, 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  O  modest  moon  ! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
Ripen' d  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  moon ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam  . 


18 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 

The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee, 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity; 

May  no  winds  careering  high, 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky; 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh,   Harvest 
Moon ! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 

The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes ; 

He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 

The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 

Oh  !  may  110  hurricane  destroy 

His  visionary  views  of  joy  : 
God  of  the  winds  !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And   while   the   moon   of  harvest   shines,    thy  blustering 
whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury  to  you 

Leave  I  sleep's  dull  power  to  woo : 


19 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed,, 
While  fev'rish  dreams  surround  your  head ; 
I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade,, 
Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 
Wrapt  in  contemplation's  dreams, 
Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 
While  on  the  gale 
Shall  softly  sail 

The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 
And  oft  my  eyes 
Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon  ! 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE 


SONNET  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

O  NIGHTINGALE,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warhlest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still, 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost  fill, 

% 

While  the  jolly  Hours  lead  on  propitious  May. 

Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day, 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckow's  bill, 
Portend  success  in  love ;  O  if  Jove's  will 

Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay, 
Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 


20 


Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh; 

As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 
For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why  : 

AVhether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate, 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

MILTON. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

N  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?  " 
1  fondly  ask :  but  Patience  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best 

Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best :  His  state, 
Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait/' — MILTON. 


22 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

IF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve;  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved  !  while  now  the  bright-hair' d  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softeii'd  strain, 

Whose  numbers  stealing  through  thy  dark'ning  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 


23 


ni)i;s    AM)    SOX  Mil's. 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,,  at  liis  \\arning  lump 

Tlic  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

AVI  10  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  ear. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene, 
Or  find  some  ruin  'midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or  if  chill  blust'ring  winds,  or  driving  ruin, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dnsUy  veil. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


\Vhilc  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light : 

\Vhilc  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves, 
Or  \V inter,  yellow  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes : 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name  ! 

COLLINS. 


25 


<>l)i:s    AM)    SONNETS. 


ODE  ON  SOLLTl  Di;. 

HAPPY  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air, 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread. 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire, 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
Tn  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcernedly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away, 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease, 

Together  mix'd  ;  sweet  recreation ; 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown, 

Thus  'unlamented  let  me  die, 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

POPE. 


SONNET. 

How  darkly  o'er  yon  far-off  mountain  frowns 
The  gathered  tempest !  from  that  lurid  cloud 
The  deep-voiced  thunders  roll,  awful  and  loud, 

Though  distant ;  while  upon  the  misty  downs 


27 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Fast  falls  in  shadowy  streaks  the  pelting  rain. 

I  never  saw  so  terrible  a  storm  ! 
Perhaps  some  way-worn  traveller  in  vain 

Wraps  his  torn  raiment  round  his  shivering  form, 
Cold  even  as  hope  within  him  !  I  the  while 
Pause  me  in  sadness,  though  the  sunbeams  smile 

Cheerily  round  me.     Ah,  that  thus  my  lot 
Might  be  with  peace  and  solitude  assigned, 

Where  I  might,  from  some  little  quiet  cot, 
Sigh  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  mankind  ! 

SOUTH EY. 


SONNET. 

STATELY  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide 

To  some  far-distant  land  adventurous  bound, 
The  sailors'  busy  cries,  from  side  to  side, 

Pealing  among  the  echoing  rocks  resound  ; 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-enduring  band, 

Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way, 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native  land, 

And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present  day. 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behind, 

Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband  there  V 


28 


Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight  wind 
Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding  prayer  ? 

So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  heaven  be  kind- 
Go  gallant  ship,  and  be  thy  fortune  fair ! 

Sou THEY 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

LIKE  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide,, 
By  conduct  of  some  star,  doth  make  her  way, 
When  as  a  storm  hath  dimmed  her  trusty  guide, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray ; 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray 
Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  overcast, 
Do  wander  now,  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  plast : 
Yet  hope  I  well  that,  when  this  storm  is  past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  life, 
Will  shine  again,  and  look  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief. 
Till  then  I  wander  careful,  comfortless, 
In  secret  sorrow,  and  sad  pensiveness. 

EDMUND  SPENCKR. 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

OME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest ! 
Return,  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I  nor  power  pursue, 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view; 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 


30 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Where  wilt  tliou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  avarice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles  ? 
For  whom,  alas  !  dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share, 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
The  heaven  that  thou  alone  canst  make  ? 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead, 
The  grove  and  the  sequestered  shed, 

To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 

For  thee  I  panted,  tliee  I  prized, 

For  thee  I  gladly  sacrificed 
Whatever  I  loved  before ; 

And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 

And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say- 
Farewell  !  we  meet  no  more  ! 

COWPER. 


31 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


THE  SPRING. 

A    SONNET. FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

THOSE  whiter  Lilies  which  the  early  morn 

Seems  to  have  newly  woven  of  sleaved  silk, 
To  which,  on  banks  of  wealthy  Tagus  born, 

Gold  was  their  cradle,  liquid  pearl  their  milk. 
These  blushing  Roses,  with  whose  virgin  leaves 

The  wanton  wind  to  sport  himself  presumes, 
Whilst  from  their  rifled  wardrobe  he  receives 

For  his  wings  purple,  for  his  breath  perfumes. 
Both  those  and  these  my  Cselia's  pretty  foot 

Trod  up — but  if  she  should  her  face  display, 
And  fragrant  breast — they  'd  dry  again  to  the  root, 

As  with  the  blasting  of  the  mid-day's  ray ; 
And  this  soft  wind,  which  both  perfumes  and  cools, 
Pass  like  the  unregarded  breath  of  fools. 

FANSHAWE. 


32 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


TT 

r         T 


# 


SONNET. 

SWEET  is  the  rose,  but  growes  upon  a  brere ; 

Sweet  is  the  junipeer,  but  sharpe  his  bough ; 

Sweet  is  the  eglantine,  but  pricketh  nere ; 

Sweet  is  the  fir  bloome,  but  his  braunches  rough  ; 

Sweet  is  the  cypresse,  but  his  rynd  is  rough ; 

Sweet  is  the  nut,  but  bitter  is  his  pill ; 

Sweet  is  the  broome-flowre,  but  yet  sowre  enough ; 

And  sweet  is  moly,  but  his  root  is  ill. 

So  every  sweet  with  soure  is  tempred  still, 

That  maketh  it  be  coveted  the  more  : 

For  easie  things,  that  may  be  got  at  will, 

Most  sorts  of  men  doe  set  but  little  store. 
"Why  then  should  I  accompt  of  little  paine, 
That  endlcsse  pleasure  shall  unto  me  jrainc  ! 

SPENSER, 


33 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

AMONGST  the  many  buds  proclaiming  May, 

(Decking  the  fields  in  holy-day's  array, 

Striving  who  shall  surpass  in  bravery,) 

Mark  the  fair  blooming  of  the  hawthorn-tree ; 

Who,  finely  clothed  in  a  robe  of  white, 

Feeds  full  the  wanton  eye  with  May's  delight. 

Yet,  for  the  bravery  that  she  is  in, 

Doth  neither  handle  card  nor  wheel  to  spin, 

Nor  changeth  robes  but  twice,  is  never  seen 

In  other  colours  than  in  white  or  green. 

Learn  then  content,  young  shepherd,  from  this  tree, 

Whose  greatest  wealth  is  Nature's  livery ; 

And  richest  ingots  never  toil  to  find, 

Nor  care  for  poverty,  but  of  the  mind. 

BROWNE, 


SONNET. 

How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks 

The  wayward  brain,  to  saunter  through  a  wood  ! 

An  old  place,  full  of  many  a  lovely  brood, 

Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground  flowers  in  flocks 

And  wild  rose  tip-toe  upon  hawthorn  stocks, 

Like  to  a  bonnie  lass,  who  plays  her  pranks 

At  wakes  and  fairs  with  wandering  mountebanks,— 


34 


When  she  stands  cresting  the  clown's  head,  and  mocks 
The  crowd  beneath  her.     Verily  I  think, 


ODES     AM)    SONNETS. 


Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a  dream 
Or  map  of  the  old  world  :  thoughts,  link  by  link, 
Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such  gleam 
Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I  shrink, 
And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 

WORDSWORTH, 


SONNET. 

THINE  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — were  serenely  wrought, 

Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charmed  from  its  despair — 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloyed  and  stainless  thought— 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 

With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 
When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 

(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

Such  seem'st  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent ! 

With  nought  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 

BYRON, 


36 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow : 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but,  oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
T  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

BYRON 


X  s/ 

>*>£• 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

THE  rolling  wheel  that  runneth  often  round,, 
The  hardest  steel  in  tract  of  time  doth  tear ; 
And  drizzling  drops,  that  often  do  redound, 
The  firmest  flint  doth  in  continuance  wear : 
Yet  cannot  I,  with  many  a  dropping  tear 
And  long  entreaty,  soften  her  hard  heart, 
That  she  will  once  vouchsafe  my  plaint  to  hear, 
Or  look  with  pity  on  my  painful  smart. 
But,  when  I  plead,  she  bids  me  play  my  part ; 
And,  when  I  weep,  she  says,  Tears  are  but  water ; 
And,  when  I  sigh,  she  says,  I  know  the  art ; 
And,  when  I  wail,  she  turns  herself  to  laughter. 
So  do  I  weep,  and  wail,  and  plead  in  vain, 
Whiles  she  as  steel  and  flint  doth  still  remain. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 


SONNET. 

THE    WINTER    TRAVELLER. 

GOD  help  thee,  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  overlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star 
To-night  will  guide  thee,  Traveller,— and  the  war 


38 


Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break, 
And  in  thy  agonising  ear  the  shriek,, 
Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car, 
Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 
A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee,  will  fill  my  head, 


39 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  him,  who  rides  where  wind  and  waves  contend, 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


ODE  WRITTEN  IN  THE  YEAR  MDCCXLVI. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  Fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  : 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

COLLINS 


10 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING. 

THE  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloome  forth  bringes, 
With,  grene  hath  cladde  the  hyll,  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingall  with  fethers  new  she  singes ; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Somer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springes ; 
The  hart  hath  hung  hys  old  head  on  the  pale  ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coate  he  flynges ; 
The  fishes  flete  with  newe  repayred  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flynges ; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flyes  smalle  ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mynges ; 
Winter  is  worne  that  was  the  floures'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  thynges 
Each  care  decayes,  and  yet  my  sorrow  sprynges. 

EARL  OP  SURREY. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

DEAR  Chorister,  who  from  those  shadows  sends 
Ere  that  the  blushing  morn  dare  show  her  light, 
Such  sad  lamenting  strains,,  that  night  attends,, 
(Become  all  ear)  stars  stay  to  hear  thy  plight, 
If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought  transcends, 
Who  ne'er  (not  in  a  dream)  did  taste  delight, 
May  thee  importune  who  like  case  pretends, 
And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe's  despite. 
Tell  me  (so  may  thou  fortune  milder  try, 
And  long,  long  sing)  for  what  thou  thus  complains, 
Since  winter's  gone,  and  sun  in  dappled  sky 
Enamour'd  smiles  on  woods  and  flowery  plains  ? 
The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her  move, 
With  trembling  wings  sigh'd  forth,  I  love,  I  love. 

DEUMMOND, 


SONNET 

TO    A    BROOK    NEAR    THE    VILLAGE    OF    CORSTON. 

As  thus  I  bend  me  o'er  thy  babbling  stream 

And  watch  thy  current,  memory's  hand  portrays 
The  faint-formed  scenes  of  the  departed  days, 
Like  the  far  forest  by  the  moon's  pale  beam 
Dimly  descried,  yet  lovely.     I  have  worn, 


42 


Upon  thy  banks,  the  livelong  hour  away, 

When  sportive  childhood  wantoned  through  the  day, 


43 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Joyed  at  the  opening  splendour  of  the  morn, 
Or,  as  the  twilight  darkened,  heaved  the  sigh, 
Thinking  of  distant  home ;  as  down  my  cheek, 
At  the  fond  thought,  slow  stealing  on,  would  speak 
The  silent  eloquence  of  the  full  eye. 
Dim  are  the  long  past  days,  yet  still  they  please 
As  thy  soft  sounds  half  heard,  borne  on  the  inconstant  breeze. 

SOUTHEY. 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN    AT    WINSLADE    IN    HAMPSHIRE. 

WINSLADE,  thy  beech-capt  hills,  with  waving  grain 

Mantled,  thy  chequered  views  of  wood  and  lawn, 

Whilom  could  charm,  or  when  the  gradual  dawn 

'Gan  the  gray  mist  with  orient  purple  stain, 

Or  Evening  glimmer'd  o'er  the  folded  train : 

Her  fairest  landskips  whence  my  Muse  has  drawn, 

Too  free  with  servile  courtly  phrase  to  fawn, 

Too  weak  to  try  the  buskin's  stately  strain : 

Yet  now  no  more  thy  slopes  of  beech  and  corn, 

Nor  views  invite,  since  he  far  distant  strays, 

With  whom  I  traced  their  sweets  at  eve  and  morn, 

From  Albion  far,  to  cull  Hesperian  bays ; 

In  this  alone  they  please,  howe'er  forlorn, 

That  still  they  can  recal  those  happier  days. — WARTON. 


44 


TO  LEVEN-WATER. 

ON  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove, 
And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love ; 
I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 
Pure  stream  !  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave ; 


45 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 

No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source ; 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 
That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed, 
With  white,  round,  polish' d  pebbles  spread  ; 
While,  lightly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 
The  springing  trout,  in  speckled  pride ; 
The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide  ; 
The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war ; 
The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 
By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine, 
And  hedges  flower 'd  with  eglantine. 
Still  on  thy  banks,  so  gaily  green, 
May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen, 
And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale, 
And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  industry  imbrown'd  with  toil, 
And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared, 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard. 

SMOLLETT. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

BECAUSE  I  breathe  not  love  to  every  one, 
Nor  do  I  use  set  colours  for  to  wear, 
Nor  nourish  special  locks  of  vowed  hair 
Nor  give  each  speech  a  full  point  of  a  groan ; 
The  courtly  nymphs,  acquainted  with  the  moan 
Of  them  who  in  their  lips  Love's  standard  bear, 
What,  he  ?  say  they  of  me,  now  I  dare  swear 
He  cannot  love  !  no,  no ;  let  him  alone. 
And  think  so  still,  so  Stella  know  my  mind ! 
Profess  indeed  I  do  not  Cupid's  art ; 
But  you,  fair  maids,  at  length  this  true  shall  find, 
That  his  right  badge  is  but  worn  in  the  heart. 
Dumb  swans,  not  chattering  pies,  do  lovers  prove . 
They  love  indeed,  who  quake  to  say  they  love. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


47 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who,  from  her  green  lap,  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire  ! 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

MILTON. 


TO  MEADOWS. 

E  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  filPd  with  flowers ; 
And  ye  the  walks  have  been, 
Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come, 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 


•18 


You  Ve  heard  them  sweetly 
And  seen  them  in  a  round, 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Each  virgin  like  a  Spring 
With  honeysuckles  crown' cl. 

But  now  we  see  none  here, 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread, 
And,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Adorn' d  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 
Ye  're  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 

HERRICK, 


50 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

THE  merry  cuckow,  messenger  of  spring, 
His  trompet  shrill  hath  thrise  already  sounded, 
That  warnes  al  lovers  wayte  upon  their  king, 
AVho  now  is  coming  forth  with  girland  crouned. 
With  noyse  whereof  the  quyre  of  byrds  resounded, 
Their  anthemes  sweet,  devized  of  loves  prayse, 
That  all  the  woods  theyr  ecchoes  hack  rebounded, 
As  if  they  knew  the  meaning  of  their  layes. 
But  mongst  them  all,  which  did  Loves  honor  rayse, 
No  word  was  heard  of  her  that  most  it  ought ; 
But  she  his  precept  proudly  disobayes, 
And  doth  his  ydle  message  set  at  nought. 

Therefore,  O  Love,  unlesse  she  turne  to  thee 

Ere  cuckow  end,  let  her  a  rebell  be  ! 

SPENSER. 

• 


51 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

FAIR  is  the  rising  morn,  when  o'er  the  sky 

The  orient  sun  expands  his  roseate  ray, 
And  lovely  to  the  bard's  enthusiast  eye 

Fades  the  meek  radiance  of  departing  day ; 
But  fairer  is  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 

Than  all  the  scenes  in  nature's  ample  sway, 
And  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  grove, 

The  voice  that  bids  us  welcome.     Such  delight, 

Edith  !  is  mine ;  escaping  to  thy  sight 
From  the  hard  durance  of  the  empty  throng. 

Too  swiftly  then  towards  the  silent  night, 
Ye  hours  of  happiness  !  ye  speed  along  ; 

Whilst  I,  from  all  the  world's  cold  cares  apart, 

Pour  out  the  feelings  of  my  burthened  heart. — SOUTH  EY 


SONNET. 

GIVE  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 
Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days  : 

And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 
May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 

While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 
List  to  the  mountain  torrent's  distant  noise, 

Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 


52 


I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys ; 
But,  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more ; 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire, 

I'll  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 


53 


ODES    AND    SOX  NETS. 


ODE. 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing, 
With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  woos  the  tardy  Spring : 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground; 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 

Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet ; 
Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance 

The  birds  his  presence  greet : 
But  chief,  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 
His  trembling  thrilling  ecstacy ; 
And,  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

GRAY. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET 

TO    THE    RIVER    TRENT. WRITTEN    ON    RECOVERY    FROM    SICKNESS. 

ONCE  more,  O  TRENT  !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale, 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 
"VToos  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
Oh  !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat ! 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail, 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
It  was  on  this,  that  many  a  sleepless  night, 

As,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  affright, 
The  owl's  dull  wing,  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this  his  sole  desire, 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


ODKS    A  XI)    SONNETS. 


SONNET 

DURING    A    TEMPEST. 

O  GOD  !  have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner  ! — In  comfort  here, 
Safe  sheltered  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 

The  blast  that  rages  with  resistless  power. 
What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves, — 

The  maddened  waves, — and  know  no  succour  near ; 

The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear, 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves, 

To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night, 

And  only  see  the  billows'  gleaming  light ; 
And  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of  her 

Who  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale, 

Puts  up  a  silent  prayer  and  waxes  pale  ! 
O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  mariner. 

SOUTHEY. 


SONNET. 

LIKE  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough, 
Sits  mourning  for  the  absence  of  her  mate, 
And  in  her  songs  sends  many  a  wishful  vow 
For  his  returne  that  seemes  to  linger  late ; 
So  I  alone,  now  loft  disconsolate, 


56 


Mourne  to  myself  the  absence  of  my  Love., 
And,  wand/ ring  here  and  there,  all  desolate, 


57 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Seek  with  my  playnts  to  match  that  mournful  dove ; 

Ne  joy  of  aught  that  under  heaven  doth  hove, 

Can  comfort  me,  but  her  owne  joyous  sight, 

Whose  sweet  aspect  both  God  and  man  can  move, 

In  her  unspotted  pleasauns  to  delight. 

Dark  is  my  day,  whyles  her  fayre  light  I  miss, 

And  dead  my  life,  that  wants  such  lively  bliss. — SPENSER. 


SONNET 

ON    THE    DEPARTURE    OF    THE     NIGHTINGALE. 

SWEET  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Farewell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year  ! 
All !  -'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 
And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
Whether  on  Spring  thy  wandering  nights  await, 
Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell, 
The  pensive  Muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate, 
And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 
With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 
Thro'  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  nest ; 
And  shepherd-girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 
The  gentle  bird,  who  sings  of  pity  best : 
For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow,  and  to  love. 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH 


58 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

FROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 

When  proud-pied  April,,  dress' d  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing ; 

That  heavy  Saturn  laugh' d  and  leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you ;  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 

As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

SHAKSPEAKE. 


59 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET 

TO    THE    EVENING    RAINBOW. 

arch  of  promise  !  on  the  evening  sky 

Thou  shinest  fair,  with  many  a  lovely  ray, 
Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine  e\  r 

Delights  to  linger  on  thee ;  for  the  day, 
Changeful  and  many-weathered,  seemed  to  smile, 
Flashing  brief  splendour  through  its  clouds  awhile 

AVhicli  deepened  dark  anon,  and  fell  in  rain  : 
But  pleasant  it  is  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue, 

And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return  again. 
Such  is  the  smile  that  piety  bestows 

On  the  good  man's  pale  cheek,  when  he,  in  peace, 
Departing  gently  from  a  world  of  woes, 

Anticipates  the  realm  where  sorrows  cease. 

SOUTHET 


MORNING. 

THE  AUTHOR  CONFINED  TO  COLLEGE. 

ONCE  more  the  vernal  sun's  ambrosial  beams 
The  fields  as  with  a  purple  robe  adorn : 

Cher  well,  thy  sedgy  banks  and  glist'ring  streams 
All  laugh  and  sing  at  mild  approach  of  morn ; 


Thro'  the  deep  groves  I  hear  the  chanting  birds, 
And  thro'  the  clover'd  vale  the  various-lowing  herds. 

Up  mounts  the  mower  from  his  lowly  thatch, 

Well  pleased  the  progress  of  the  spring  to  mark, 
The  fragrant  breath  of  breezes  pure  to  catch, 


63 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  startle  from  her  couch  the  early  lark ; 
More  genuine  pleasure  soothes  his  tranquil  breast. 
Than  high-throned  kings  can  boast,  in  eastern  glory  drest. 

The  pensive  poet  thro'  the  green-wood  steals, 

Or  treads  the  willow' d  marge  of  murmuring  brook ; 

Or  climbs  the  steep  ascent  of  airy  hills ; 

There  sits  him  down  beneath  a  branching  oak,, 

Whence  various  scenes,,  and  prospects  wide  below,, 

Still  teach  his  musing  mind  with  fancies  high  to  glow. 

But  I  nor  with  the  day  awake  to  bliss, 

(Inelegant  to  me  fair  Nature's  face, 
A  blank  the  beauty  of  the  morning  is, 

And  grief  and  darkness  all  for  light  and  grace ;) 
Nor  bright  the  sun,  nor  green  the  meads  appear, 
Nor  colour  charms  mine  eye,  nor  melody  mine  ear. 

Me,  void  of  elegance  and  manners  mild, 
With  leaden  rod,  stern  Discipline  restrains ; 

Stiff  Pedantry,  of  learned  Pride  the  child, 
My  roving  genius  binds  in  Gothic  chains ; 

Nor  can  the  cloister'd  Muse  expand  her  wing, 

Nor  bid  these  twilight  roofs  with  her  gay  carols  ring. 

WARTON. 


62 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE  TO  VEBTUE. 

WEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie  ; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angrie  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  dayes  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  musick  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Onely  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

GEORGE  HERBERT. 


63 


ODES    ANT)    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who  by  some  shady  grove, 

Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  doth  live  his  own  ; 

Though  solitary,  who  is  not  alone, 

But  doth  converse  with  that  Eternal  Love. 

O  how  more  sweet  is  birds'  harmonious  moan, 

Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widow'd  dove, 

Than  those  smooth  whisperings  neer  a  prince's  throne, 

Which  good  make  doubtful,  do  the  evil  approve  ! 

O  how  more  sweet  is  Zephyr's  wholesome  breath, 

And  sighs  embalm'd,  which  new-born  flowers  unfold, 

Than  that  applause  vain  honour  doth  bequeath  ! 

How  sweet  are  streams  to  poison  drunk  in  gold  ! 

The  world  is  full  of  horrors,  troubles,  slights ; 

Woods'  harmless  shades  have  only  true  delights. 

DRUMMOND. 


THE  RETURN. 

As,  when  to  one  who  long  hath  watch'd,  the  morn, 
Advancing  slow,  forewarns  the  approach  of  day 
(What  time  the  young  and  flowery-kirtled  May 
Decks  the  green  hedge  and  dewy  grass  unshorn 
With  cowslips  pale,  and  many  a  whitening  thorn), 


And  now  the  sun  comes  forth  with  level  ray, 
Gilding  the  high  wood  top  and  mountain  gray  ; 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And,  as  lie  climbs,  the  meadows  'gins  adorn ; 

The  rivers  glisten  to  the  dancing  beam, 
Th'  awaken' d  birds  begin  their  amorous  strain, 

And  hill  and  vale  with  joy  and  fragrance  teem. 
Such  is  the  sight  of  thee ;  thy  wish'd  return 
To  eyes,  like  mine,  that  long  have  waked  to  mourn, 
That  long  have  watch' d  for  light,  and  wept  in  vain. 

BAMPFYLDE. 


ON  THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 

WITH  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 
That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ! 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne ; 
A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill ; 
And  Echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 
And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  ; 
The  sky-lark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath-morn 
The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove ; 
The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws ; 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


The  gales,  that  lately  sigh'd  along  the  grove, 
Have  hush'd  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clonds  forgets  to  move ; 
So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  ! 

JOHN  LEYDEX 


%fiaP^tpS«b&£ 


4 


ODE  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

How  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view, 

Fair  star  !  to  love  and  lovers  dear ; 
While  trembling  on  the  falling  dew, 

Like  beauty  shining  through  the  tear ; 
Or  hanging  o'er  that  mirror- stream 

To  mark  each  image  trembling  there, 
Thou  seenr'st  to  smile  with  softer  gleam 

To  see  thv  lovely  face  so  fair. 


f.7 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Though  blazing  o'er  the  arch  of  night, 

The  moon  thy  timid  beams  outshine, 
As  far  as  thine  each  starry  night — 

Her  rays  can  never  vie  with  thine. 
Thine  are  the  soft  enchanting  hours, 

When  twilight  lingers  on  the  plain, 
And  whispers  to  the  closing  flow'rs 

That  soon  the  sun  will  rise  again. 

Thine  is  the  breeze  that  murmuring,  bland 

As  music,  wafts  the  lover's  sigh, 
And  bids  the  yielding  heart  expand 

In  love's  delicious  ecstasy. 
Fair  star  !  though  I  be  doom'd  to  prove 

That  rapture's  tears  are  mix'd  with  pain ; 
Ah  !  still  I  feel  'tis  sweet  to  love — 

But  sweeter  to  be  loved  again. 

LEYDEN. 


SONNET  TO  A  REDBREAST. 

SWEET  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care, 
AVell-pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 


Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers  ! 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers 

Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 

And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare ; 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs, 

Attired  in  sweetness,  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites  and  wrongs, 

And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ? 


69 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


S  weet  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 
To  airs  of  spheres,  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 


SONNET. 

WITH  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climVst  the  skies  ! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 

What !  may  it  be,  that  e'en  in  heav'nly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feePst  a  lover's  case  ; 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;  thy  languished  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  ev'n  of  fellowship,  O  moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


70 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

As  I  have  seen  the  lady  of  the  May 

Set  in  the  arbour  (on  a  holy-day) 

Built  by  the  May-pole,  where  the  jocund  swains 

Dance  with  the  maidens  to  the  bagpipe's  strains, 

When  envious  night  commands  them  to  be  gone, 

Call  for  the  merry  youngsters  one  by  one, 

And  for  their  well  performance  soon  disposes, 

To  this  a  garland  interwove  with  roses ; 

To  that  a  carved  hook,  or  well-wrought  scrip, 

Gracing  another  with  her  cherry  lip ; 

To  one  her  garter,  to  another  then 

A  handkerchief  cast  o'er  and  o'er  again ; 

And  none  returneth  empty  that  have  spent 

His  pains  to  fill  their  rural  merriment. 

BROWNE. 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN   AT   THE   CLOSE    OF   SPRING. 

THE  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew, 
Anemones,  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity !  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion,  and  corrosive  care, 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring ; 

Ah !  why  has  happiness  no  second  spring  ? 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH, 


EVENING  ODE. 

TO    STELLA. 

EVENING  now  from  purple  wings 
Sheds  the  grateful  gifts  she  brings ; 
Brilliant  drops  bedeck  the  mead, 
Cooling  breezes  shake  the  reed  ; 


72 


Shake  the  reed,  and  curl  the  stream 
Silver VI  o'er  with  Cynthia's  beam  ; 


7:; 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Near  the  chequer'd,  lonely  grove, 
Hears,  and  keeps  thy  secrets,  love  ! 
Stella,  thither  let  us  stray, 
Lightly  o'er  the  dewy  way. 
Pho3bus  drives  his  burning  car 
Hence,  my  lovely  Stella,  far ; 
In  his  stead,  the  queen  of  night 
Hound  us  pours  a  lambent  light : 
Light  that  seems  but  just  to  show 
Breasts  that  beat,  and  cheeks  that  glow ; 
Let  us  now,  in  whisper' d  joy, 
Evening's  silent  hours  employ, 
Silence  best,  and  conscious  shades, 
Please  the  hearts  that  love  invades, 
Other  pleasures  give  them  pain, 
Lovers  all  but  love  disdain. 

JOHNSON, 


MAY-DAY  ODE. 

UEEN  of  fresh  flowers, 
Whom  vernal  stars  obey, 

Bring  thy  warm  showers, 
Bring  thy  genial  ray. 

In  nature's  greenest  livery  drest, 


74 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Descend  on  earth's  expectant  breast, 
To  earth  and  Heaven  welcome  guest, 
Thou  merry  month  of  May  ! 

Mark  !  how  we  meet  thee 

At  dawn  of  dewy  day  ! 
Hark  !  how  we  greet  thee 

With  our  roundelay  ! 
While  all  the  goodly  things  that  he 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  ample  sea, 
Are  waking  up  to  welcome  thee, 

Thou  merry  month  of  May  ! 

Flocks  on  the  mountains, 

And  birds  upon  their  spray, 
Tree,  turf,  and  fountains 

All  hold  holiday ; 

And  Love,  the  life  of  living  things, 
Love  waves  his  torch,  and  clasps  his  wings, 
And  loud  and  wide   thy  praises  sings, 

Thou  merry  month  of  May  ! 

HEBER. 


ODES    AM)    SONNETS. 


ODE  ON  THE  SPUING. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy -bosom'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expected  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat, 

Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 
The  untaught  harmony  of  spring  ; 

While,  whisp'ring  pleasure  as  they  fly, 

Cool  Zephyrs  thro'  the  clear  blue  sky 
Their  gather' d  fragrance  fling. 

AVhere'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade ; 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 

How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  Crowd, 

How  low,  how  little  are  the  Proud, 
How  indigent  the  Great? 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care  : 
The  panting  herds  repose  : 


76 


Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 


77 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring, 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 

Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 

Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 
Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  Man ; 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly, 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  Busy  and  the  Gay 
But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day, 
In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest : 

Brush' d  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 

Or  chill'd  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 
They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear,  in  accents  low, 

The  sportive,  kind  reply  : 
Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly ! 

Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 

On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown ; 

Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone— 
We  frolic  while  'tis  May.  (J  HAY. 


78 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea  : 

Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  tliou  appear' st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 

Thou  liest  "  in  Abraham's  bosom  "  all  the  year ; 

And  worshipp'st  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

WORDSWORTH 


79 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


THE  HAMLET. 

WRITTEN    IN    WHICHWOOD    FOREST. 

THE  hinds  how  blest,  who  ne'er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet's  hawthorn  wild ; 
Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main,, 
For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain ! 

When  morning's  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue, 
To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew ; 
The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell, 
That  nodding  shades  a  craggy  dell. 

; Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear, 
Wild  nature's  sweetest  notes  they  hear ; 
On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth's  neglected  hue ; 
In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds, 
They  spy  the  squirrel's  airy  bounds : 
And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray, 
Across  the  glen,  the  screaming  jay  : 
Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude's  sequester'd  store. 


For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts,  to  illume  their  homeward  way  : 


M 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve, 

The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 

No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare, 

That  o'er  a  glimmering  hearth  they  share 

But  when  the  curfew's  measured  roar 

Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o'er, 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town, 

They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down, 

No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 

Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay -built  room, 
Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray, 
Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay ; 
Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip-twine, 
Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine ; 
Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hill, 
To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill ; 
Or  climb  the  tall  pine's  gloomy  crest, 
To  rob  the  raven's  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honied  flow'rs 
The  curling  woodbine's  shade  embow'rs  : 
From  the  small  garden's  thy  my  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound  : 


Nor  fell  Disease,  before  his  time, 
Hastes  to  consume  life's  golden  prime : 
But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar ; 
As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep, 
Beneath  a  flowery  turf  they  sleep. — WAR/TON, 


S3 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE. 


ON  yonder  verdant  hillock  laid, 
Where  oaks  and  elms,  a  friendly  shade, 

Overlook  the  falling  stream, 
Oh,  master  of  the  Latin  lyre, 
Awhile  with  thee  will  I  retire 

From  summer's  noontide  beam. 

And,  lo,  within  my  lonely  bower, 

The  industrious  bee  from  many  a  flower 

Collects  her  balmy  dews  : 
"  For  me,"  she  sings,  "  the  gems  are  born, 
For  me  their  silken  robe  adorn, 

Their  fragrant  breath  diffuse." 

Sweet  murmurer  !  may  no  rude  storm 
This  hospitable  scene  deform, 

Nor  check  thy  gladsome  toils  ; 
Still  may  the  buds  unsullied  spring, 
Still  showers  and  sunshine  court  thy  wing 

To  these  ambrosial  spoils. 

AKENSIDE. 


84 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


>       <<      X      '< 


SONNET 

TO    THE    THRUSH,    IN    JANUARY. 

SING  on,  sweet  Thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough ; 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain ; 

See  aged  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 
At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  furrow'd  brow. 
So  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanxious  heart, 

Welcomes  the  rapid  movements,  bids  them  part, 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 
I  thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day  ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  the  orient  skies  ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away  ! 
Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care ; 
The  mite  high  Heav'n  bestowed,  that  mite  with  thee 
I'll  share. 

BURNS. 


85 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Xy 


^ 


SONNET. 

THE  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 
"Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  Moon,  as  thou  art  bright  !  " 
Forthwith,  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread, 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered ; — dazzling  the  beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right, 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside, 
Went,  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went ; 
And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
Approached  this  glory  of  the  firmament ; 
Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured ; — content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 

WORDSWORTH, 


86 


ODES    AND    SONNETS, 


•  o     o  • 
o  ,  o 
o  T  o 

•  oo 


SONNET. 

A  MOON -LIGHT  NIGHT. 

Low  on  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  sight, 
The  rising  vapours  catch  the  silver  light : 
Thence  Fancy  measures,  as  they  parting  fly, 
Which  first  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye, 
Passing  the  source  of  light ;  and  thence  away, 
Succeeded  quick  by  brighter  still  than  they. 
For  yet  above  these  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky,  still  more  serene,) 
Others  detached  in  ranges  through  the  air, 
Spotless  as  snow,  and  countless  as  they're  fair, 
Scattered  immediately  wide  from  east  to  west, 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 
These,  to  the  raptured  mind,  aloud  proclaim 
Their  Mighty  Shepherd's  everlasting  name. 

BLOOMFIELD. 


S7 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET  TO  SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky  ; 
I  've  thought  of  all  by  turns ;  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees  ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth  : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  betwixt  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 

WORDSWORTH  , 


SONNET. 

FULL  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 

Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy ; 


88 


Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  from  the  forlorn  world  Iris  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace  : 

Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 
With  all  triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow ; 

But  out,  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 

The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  wit  disdaineth ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 

SlIAKSPEARE. 


90 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

THE  weary  yeare  his  race  now  having  run, 
The  new  begins  his  compast  course  anew : 
With  shew  of  morning  mylde  he  hath  begun, 
Betokening  peace  and  plenty  to  ensew. 
So  let  us,  which  this  chaunge  of  weather  vew, 
Chaunge  eke  our  mynds,  and  former  lives  amend ; 
The  old  yeares  sinnes  forepast  let  us  eschew, 
And  fly  the  faults  with  which  we  did  offend. 
Then  shall  the  new  yeares  joy  forth  freshly  send, 
Into  the  glooming  world,  his  gladsome  ray : 
And  all  these  stormes,  which  now  his  beauty  blend, 
Shall  turne  to  calmes,  and  tymely  cleare  away. 

So,  likewise,  Love  !  cheare  you  your  heavy  spright, 
And  chaunge  old  yeares  annoy  to  new  delight. 

SPENSER. 


91 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE. 

PACK  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow  ! 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I  '11  borrow  ; 
Bird  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow  ! 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  both  I  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  red-breast, 

Sing  birds  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow  ! 
Blackbird,  and  thrush,  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow  ! 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow  ! 

To  give  rny  love  good-morrow, 

Sing  birds  in  every  furrow  ! 

HEY  WOOD. 


92 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 

WEE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou'st  met  me  in  an  evil  hour : 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonnie  gem  ! 

Alas  !  it 's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  '  mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckled  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  East. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  North 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


93 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  : 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade, 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiPd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd  ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  Lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 


94 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven, 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruin/d,  sink  ! 

BURNS. 


ODE  TO  SPRING. 

EARTH  now  is  green,  and  heaven  is  blue ; 
Lively  Spring,  which  makes  all  new, 

Jolly  Spring  doth  enter ; 
Sweet  young  sunbeams  do  subdue 

Angry,  aged  Winter. 
Winds  are  mild,  and  seas  are  calm, 
Every  meadow  flows  with  balm, 

The  earth  wears  all  her  riches ; 
Harmonious  birds  sing  such  a  psalm 

As  car  and  heart  bewitches. 

SIR  J.  DAVIKS. 


95 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


RETIREMENT. 

AN    ODE. 

ON  beds  of  daisies  idly  laid, 
The  willow  waving  o'er  my  head, 
Now  morning,  on  the  bending  stem, 
Hangs  the  round  and  glittering  gem, 
LulPd  by  the  lapse  of  yonder  spring, 
Of  nature's  various  charms  I  sing : 
Ambition,  pride,  and  pomp,  adieu, 
For  what  has  joy  to  do  with  you? 

Joy,  rose-lipt  dryad,  loves  to  dwell 
In  sunny  field,  or  mossy  cell ; 
Delights  on  echoing  hills  to  hear 
The  reaper's  song,  or  lowing  steer ; 
Or  view,  with  tenfold  plenty  spread, 
The  crowded  corn-field,  blooming  mead ; 
While  beauty,  health,  and  innocence, 
Transport  the  eye,  the  soul,  the  sense. 

WARTON,  SEX. 


SONNET. 

THAT  time  of  year  thou  mayest  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 


In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 


07 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


ODE. 

THE    CHARACTER    OF    A     HAPPY     LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught, 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  highest  skill : 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are  ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death  ; 
Not  ty'd  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  prince's  ear,  or  vulgar  breath  : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruine  make  oppressors  great : 


98 


ODES    AM)    SOXXKTS. 


AVho  envies  none,  whom  chance  doth  raise,, 
Or  vice  :  Who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  with  praise  ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  feare  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  hiinselfe,  though  not  of  lauds ; 


And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


WOTTOX 


99 


KS    AND    SONNETS. 


THE  VIOLET. 

SHELTERED  from  the  blight,  ambition, 

Fatal  to  the  pride  of  rank, 
See  me  in  my  low  condition, 

Laughing  on  the  tufted  bank. 

On  my  robes,  for  emulation, 

No  variety  's  imprest : 
Suited  to  an  humble  station, 

Mine  's  an  unembroider'd  vest. 

LANGHORNE. 


ODE. 

THE  earth,  late  chok'd  with  showers, 

Is  now  array 'd  in  green, 
Her  bosom  springs  with  flowers, 

The  air  dissolves  her  teen  ; 


100 


The  woods  are  decked  with  leaves, 
And  trees  are  clothed  gay ; 


101 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


And  Flora,  crown' d  with  sheaves, 

With  oaken  boughs  doth  play. 
The  birds  upon  the  trees 

Do  sing  with  pleasant  voices, 
And  chaunt  in  their  degrees 

Their  loves  and  lucky  choices. 

LODGE. 


THE  DAISY. 

DAISIES,  ye  flowers  of  lowly  birth, 
Embroiderers  of  the  carpet  earth, 
That  stud  the  velvet  sod  ; 
Open  to  Spring's  refreshing  air, 
In  sweetest,  smiling  bloom  declare 
Your  Maker,  and  my  GOD. 

CLARE. 


102 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


ODE  TO  MAY. 

BORN  in  you  blaze  of  orient  sky, 

Sweet  May  !  thy  radiant  form  unfold, 

Unclose  thy  blue  voluptuous  eye, 

And  wave  thy  shadowy  locks  of  gold. 

For  thee  the  fragrant  zephyrs  blow, 
For  thee  descends  the  sunny  shower ; 

The  rills  in  softer  murmurs  flow, 

And  brighter  blossoms  gem  the  bower. 

Light  Graces  dressed  in  flowery  wreaths, 
And  tiptoe  joys"  their  hands  combine  ; 
And  Love  his  sweet  contagion  breathes, 
And  laughing  dances  round  thy  shrine. 

Warm  with  new  life,  and  glittering  throngs, 
On  quivering  fin  and  rustling  wing, 

Delighted  join  their  votive  songs, 

And  hail  thee,  "  Goddess  of  the  Spring  !  " 

DARWIN 


103 


ODES    AND    SONNKTS. 


^>    &    * 


ODE. 

COME  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ; 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull  : 


104 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
And,  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May- morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

MARLOWE. 


ODE. 

HEN  May  is  in  his  prime, 

Then  may  each  heart  rejoice : 
When  May  bedecks  each  branch  with  green, 

Each  bird  strains  forth  his  voice. 

The  lively  sap  creeps  up 

Into  the  blooming  thorn  : 
The  flowers,  which  cold  in  prison  kept, 

Now  laugh  the  frost  to  scorn. 


105 


ODES    AND    SONNETS. 


All  ye  that  live  on  earth, 

And  have  your  May  at  will, 
Rejoice  in  May,  as  I  do  now, 

And  use  your  May  with  skill. 

Use  May,  while  that  you  may, 

For  May  hath  but  his  time ; 
When  all  the  fruit  is  gone,  it  is 

Too  late  the  tree  to  climb, 

EDWARDS. 


SONNET  ON  CHRISTMAS. 

WITH  footsteep  slow,  in  furry  pall  yclad, 
His  brow  enwreath'd  with  holly  never  sere, 
Old  Christmas  comes,  to  close  the  waned  year  • 
And  aye  the  shepherd's  heart  to  make  right  glad ; 
Who,  when  his  teeming  flocks  are  homeward  had 
To  blazing  hearth  repairs,  and  nut-brown  beer, 
And  views,  well-pleased,  the  ruddy  prattlers  dear 
Hug  the  grey  mongrel ;  meanwhile  maid  and  lad 
Squabble  for  roasted  crabs.     Thee,  sire,  we  hail, 


106 


Whether  thine  aged  limbs  thou  dost  enshroud 
In  vest  of  snowy  white  and  hoary  veil, 
Or  wrapp'st  thy  visage  in  a  sable  cloud ; 
Thee  we  proclaim  with  mirth  and  cheer,  nor  fail 
To  greet  thee  well  with  many  a  carol  loud. 

BAMPFYLDE. 


, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


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